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CHAPTER

ONE

INDIANA

“Time for you to go,” I say, slapping the club girl’s ass to get her moving. We don’t have traditional clubwhores like most of the clubs do, we have hangarounds. We chose back in the day after voting on it that we didn’t want a house full of women who’ll chase us for our patches and get attached to the point where they become catty. There’s nothing worse than women being bitchy then thinking they can still charm a man into making her his old lady.

There’s a party nearly every night of the week where we open our doors for the women of the town to come and hang out. Friday and Saturday nights are when things are a bit wild and out of control. My brothers party harder than any frat boys and it shows the next day when nobody has the mental capacity to function until after noontime.

“It’s too early,” the bitch says, covering her face with my spare pillow.

“Don’t start your bitching,” I say through gritted teeth. “You already stayed overnight, and that was pushing it. Get the fuck dressed and out of my room before I grab you by the roots of your hair and toss you out.”

“You’re an asshole,” she humphs. Considering the number of orgasms I gave her the night before, she should shut her mouth and move the fuck on.

“Never said I wasn’t,” I contend. “Keep up your bullshit and I’ll have you banned.” Sliding out from beneath my sheets, my ass and dick on display, I saunter over to my dresser and pull out my standard attire. Jeans, socks, and boxers before heading into my closet and grabbing one of my black Henley shirts. “You better be gone by the time I get out of the shower.” I don’t wait to hear if she has anything to say, nothing that could come out of her mouth would be of any significance to me, and go into my attached bathroom, lock the door in case she has any bright ideas about joining me, and start heating up my shower.

“I’m getting too old for this,” I mumble to myself as I walk underneath the showerhead and let the water sluice over me. My shoulders hunch in on themselves as I hang my head, pouring over my life and contemplating why I damage my liver to the point where I begin to wonder if I’ll need a transplant in a few years when I indulge Renegade after he challenges me to a drinking contest. I know that fucker can drink me under the table, but I’ve never been one to back down so I always find myself accepting it.

Not wanting to prolong my day by hiding out in my bathroom, I quickly take care of business by washing my body and hair. Once those tasks are taken care of, I reach up and grab my toothbrush and squirt a dollop of paste onto it and brush my teeth. My brothers tease me about the fact that I keep those supplies in my shower instead of using the sink, but it’s easier to do everything at once.

I spit into the drain and step back under the spray, washing away the foam from my lips. Turning the nozzle, the shower shuts off and I grab my towel. As I dry, I lean toward the door and listen for any movement. When there is none, I swing it open and let the steam billow out so I don’t feel like I’m in a sauna.

“Good, the bitch listened,” I mutter, then dress. After I’m fully dressed outside of my boots and cut, I comb my hair and use my beard oil to maintain it and make it shine. I have issues with keeping the hair on my face hydrated so I sought out a local hairdresser who recommended this routine, and since I’ve started, my shit looks healthy instead of raggedy. I was catching shit from some of the brothers about becoming high maintenance until they saw the results. Now several of them have started using product on theirs as well. Fuckers.

The second my ass hits my mattress to lace up my boots, there’s a pounding on my door. “Yo, Indiana?”

“Door’s unlocked, LoneStar,” I state, letting him know he can come in without verbalizing it.

“Wasn’t sure if it was a one or two girl kind of night for you and didn’t want to walk in on you if you were busy,” LoneStar smirkingly says as he walks into my room. “That one bitch that walked out of your room was cussing you up one side and down the other. She was not a happy camper.”

“Stupid bitch did nothing but complain once I told her to kick rocks,” I gripe. “There needs to be some sort of rule book passed out to them when they come to party.”

“Some of them are so damn ditzy I wonder if they can read,” he teases. “There are rules set in place and they’re made aware of them at the beginning of the night. Maybe they should have to sign something beforehand.”

“If they can’t read, what makes you think they can write?” I counter.

“Good point,” he parries. “We make it clear that they’re here for nothing more than to have a good time and scratch an itch. They all come in with stars in their eyes hoping to land themselves an old man.”

“I’m not on the market,” I say, sighing. “Maybe I should tattoo that on my forehead.”

“That’d be a fashion statement,” he snickers. “I don’t think I’ll be jumping on that bandwagon.”

Shaking my head, I stand and grab my cut from the back of the chair, and as I slide it over my shoulders, I ask, “What did you stop by for?”

“The Harley shop called and our order is in. Pres said you’re the one who’s listed as the signature to pick it up, so you get to head to the mall,” he enthuses.

“Fucking hell. Isn’t today the start of that tax free shopping shit? That damn place is going to be packed with screaming kids and parents getting pissed and screaming at the top of their lungs trying to wrangle them in,” I moan.

It’s not like I hate kids, because I don’t. I’m more ambivalent toward them seeing as I don’t plan to ever have an old lady and therefore, kids are not in my future. So, to willingly go to the fucking mall where they’re going to be virtually everywhere has my head already pounding.

“Uh huh,” he says, nodding his head. “Sure is.”

“I’m going to jail,” I mutter. “Have my bail money ready because I’m gonna knock some dad’s teeth down his throat.”

“Is that a prediction?” LoneStar asks, smirking.

“Fuck you, asshole. Keep that shit up and I’ll volunteer you to go with me,” I taunt.

“Nope, sorry. I have to head to the underground bunker and see who’s mummified enough so we can burn them to ashes,” he informs me. He’s full of shit, we burn those fuckers after a fresh kill, they don’t need to be fossilized to hit our furnaces.

“I can call the Harley shop and put your name on the approved list, we could switch,” I offer.

“No thanks, I prefer the dead to the living,” he rebuffs. “They don’t talk back.”

“Who’s my partner then?” I ask, pushing my keys and wallet into my jean pockets.

“Icer,” he tells me.

“Forget jail, I’m going straight to the death chamber,” I snort. The thing about Icer is he mentally has no capacity for bullshit. You look at him sideways and he’ll pull his piece and shoot you between the eyes and walk over your body whistling. Nothing satisfies him more than a dead body at his feet.

“He’s chill today,” LoneStar advises.

“Oh, yeah? Did somebody roofie him or something?” I inquire.

“Pres gave him a happy pill.” He smiles, looking awfully proud of himself.

“You slipped it in his coffee, didn’t you?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” he answers, grinning. “When his name came up as it being his turn, we knew we needed to take precautions.”

“Good call.” I release a sigh because even if he’s flying high, he’s still going to be a menace to deal with. “I guess I should get this over with.”

As we ride through town, my eyes keep shifting over to Icer. I’m not sure what Riptide gave him, but that shit needs to be packaged and sold on the market. He’s gone from having the appearance of a serial killer to that of a man who’s just been given head. This shift in demeanor has me more nervous than if I carried a syringe of anti-anxiety meds to shoot him up with. And yes, anyone working with Icer carries it around on their person. You never know when you need to give him a time out.

As we pull up to the mall I groan. It’s so damn packed that we have to back our bikes into the same space at the back forty. I back in first and he follows suit, his bike catty corner to mine. “These little fuckers better not put a scratch on my ride,” I hiss.

“It’s just paint, Indiana,” he argues, looking at me as if I’m being irrational. My head snaps in his direction as my eyes widen in shock.

What. The. Fuck? He’s usually the one ripping heads from necks and rolling them down aisles like they’re bowling balls, but he’s basically telling me to chill?

“You alright, brother?” I ask, as he dazedly scans the lot.

“I’m good. I feel so fucking free,” he tells me, pushing his arms out to his sides and spinning in circles. “The colors are fucking beautiful, aren’t they?”

His marveling has me discombobulated. I whip out my phone and send Riptide a text wanting to know if this is a normal reaction to whatever the fuck it was he gave him. Before I get a reply back, I catch movement out of my peripheral and notice Icer skipping through the lot.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Icer, man, what the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure if I’m humiliated or humored by his sudden burst of serenity.

“Did you know they have a cookie store in there?” he hollers, pointing at the building.

“Yeah, man, I did,” I remark, feeling like today is going to go down in the history books. “Would you like to stop and get one?”

“Yes, I would,” he states, bobbing his head.

“Alright, Icer. We’ll grab you a damn cookie before we hit the Harley shop. Do me a favor though.”

“What’s that?” he asks, turning on his feet and facing me.

I’m just happy he’s stopped acting like he’s reclaimed his childhood by skipping and say, “Walk, man. And could you, I don’t know, talk normal?” I didn’t notice until now that his pitch has risen an octave and I’m freaking the fuck out.

“I am normal, Indiana. It’s you who needs to embrace life and smell the roses.”

“Oh, Jesus fuck. Somebody gave you too much Midol or something,” I grumble.

“I don’t take that shit, Indiana,” he deadpans. “Come on, I need a cookie and some coffee.” And wouldn’t you know it, the fucker is skipping again while whistling a tune I recognize but can’t put my finger on.

As we hit the line, a little girl and her mother are in front of us. The tune coming from Icer catches the daughter’s attention and she reaches out and grabs Icer’s hand which has me reaching for my piece. My only thought is I have to protect this kid from our Enforcer when he realizes somebody is touching him.

“A whole new world,” the girl starts singing to his whistling. My eyes bug out when I finally figure out what he’d been whistling and I step back in shock when Icer begins singing with her, crouching down on her level. I pull out my phone and start recording this shit because I think Pres may have inadvertently poisoned Icer. My brother’s going to have a heart attack when he sees this shit and his brain starts firing again.

“Elodie,” the mother snaps out her name. “It’s not polite to touch strangers.” At least she waited until the duo stopped singing to scold her child.

I go to intervene when Icer says in an assuasive voice, “It’s okay, ma’am. We have a common interest, don’t we, Miss Elodie?” The girl nods her head and I feel my heart rate ramp in my chest when he pats her on the head. I know what those hands are capable of and his touch is usually done with violence.

“Did you know there’s a Disney store here?” Elodie asks Icer. “We’re going there next, do you wanna come?”

“Elodie!” her mother exclaims. “They probably have things to do themselves and they’re not going to want to traipse through what’s pretty much a store designed for kids!”

At this point, I’m torn between laughing my ass off and wondering if I need to take Icer to the emergency room and tell them he’s somehow been poisoned, because he exclaims, “I’d love to go!”

“Yay! We’re going to Disney, Mama,” the girl exclaims, her hand now nestled in Icer’s as they swing them between them.

“I’m so sorry, she’s never met a stranger,” the mom says, turning toward me and when our eyes connect, instant recognition hits me like a freight train.

“Zoey? Is that you?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Harrison? Oh my, it’s been a long time,” she says, her voice quivering as tears gather in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping forward and placing the palms of my hands on her shoulders. “What can I do?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, waving me off. “It’s just a shock to see you after all this time.”